What, sleeping, lies in wait
by When the clock strikes twelve
Summary: A few years after the battle of Hogwarts, Harry has to clean out the attic, but why he finds is rather surprising. A short fic I wrote for a friend. She wanted me to share it, so here it is. Enjoy, if you dare.
1. Chapter 1

What, sleeping, lies in wait

"Harry, you need to clear out the attic!" Ginny told him for what felt like the hundredth day in a row, although she knew it had only been about a week.

"Why can't you do it?" her fiancé snapped back at her.

"Because, unlike you, I have a job which means I actually need to leave the house more than twice a week."

"Hey, I have to do research and independent work on this case if I want to become a level 3 auror."

"Well, while you're doing your _independent research_," Ginny said, oozing sarcasm, "you can clean out the attic." With that she grabbed the piece of toast Harry had just lovingly buttered for himself and flounced out of the room, picking up her broomstick on the way.

Harry sighed, as he buttered himself another piece of toast, daydreaming vaguely as he slowly munched it into oblivion.

It was Ginny's birthday tomorrow, so he knew that he should be nice to her and do what she wanted so that everything would be ready for her.

Reluctantly he dragged himself up a flight of stairs and a ladder until he reached the trap door that led into the attic. Pushing it open, he was greeted by a sudden attack of dust to the face which made him cough and splutter. He brought his hands to his face, which turned out to be a very bad idea, as he fell five feet to the carpeted, but still very hard floor beneath him.

He lay still for a moment, glasses askew, contemplating the small square above him; it was almost as if the universe didn't want him to clean out the attic. But he knew that an upset Ginny was a lot more threatening than anything that the measly old universe could throw at him, so he pulled himself upright and once again made his way up the ladder to what he was sure would probably be something along the lines of certain doom.

Once inside the attic, he lit an oil lamp with the tap of his wand, and orangey light permeated the room. Somehow the room was still very dusty; even though Harry was sure he had swallowed at least five pounds of the stuff so he raised his magical wooden pointy stick and muttered, "_Scurgify!_" Half a second later, the room was dust-free. Mrs Weasley would be proud, Harry thought to himself as he scoured the contents of the room around him. There wasn't actually all that much in there: several chairs, a sofa, a table, a large, elegantly-carved, oak chest of drawers, and about ten large cardboard boxes.

Harry started with the furniture. He went round sitting on all the chairs, vanishing all the ones that made a lot of noise, were very uncomfortable or collapsed beneath his weight. The table was actually nicer than the one they had downstairs in the kitchen and Harry decided that when they moved to a bigger housed it would become their dining room table. Everything, else checked out, he even found his old Marauder's Map in one of the drawers.

Four of the boxes were filled with books, which he didn't even contemplate throwing away because he knew that Hermione would never forgive him. Two were filled with old robes, and broken shoes and a cloak with a large rip around the left shoulder. Upon closer inspection, Harry realised it was the cloak Ron had worn, when they had snuck into Gringotts to steal the cup. "Ah, good times," he muttered to himself.

He put all the old clothes in a large bag which he would give to Luna; she loved second-hand things and would probably cut them all up and make some interesting ball gown out of it.

One of the boxes contained several large photo albums, including the one Hagrid had given Harry all those years ago. These, he placed next to the trap door; he would show them to Ginny and they could choose what to keep and what to throw.

The other three boxes were full of useless paraphernalia such as chipped cups, mouldy potion supplies, some gone-off owl treats and schoolbooks. Once he had disposed of these, Harry returned to the attic to do one final check.

In the far corner, he noticed something that he hadn't spotted earlier, a small wooden chest. He went over and picked, but when he tried to open it, the box remained stubbornly closed. "_Alohamora_," Harry cast, but there was no satisfying click.

Something on the box caught his eye, an engraving of a snake, lay just beneath the keyhole, without thinking about it, Harry hissed and spat at the box. The serpent seemed to smile as the box jumped open.

Inside there lay three objects: a quill, an ink bottle and a very familiar diary that Harry had one day hoped to never see again.

Unable to control his own movements he inked the quill and opening the diary to a random page he wrote one word.

_Tom._

He stared down expectantly, almost hopefully, at the blank page, and sure enough, his three letters slowly started to sink into the page. The reply did not come immediately, in fact, Harry had to wait almost a minute and a half before royal purple ink began to blossom across the page.

_Ah, Harry. Welcome back. I assume you thought you'd seen the last of me, but I will always be. Until I am forgotten, I will survive in the pages of my old diary. Now come let me see your face, it was once so familiar, but now all I can remember is a scar._

Harry could almost hear, the smooth, comforting voice of the young Tom Riddle that he had heard only a few times before. He knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn't hold back and he slowly moved his face closer to the yellowing pages in front of him until they were somehow all around him. Suddenly they were no longer pages, but smooth walls of **hard, veined** marble.

"Harry," said the all-too-familiar voice behind him, smooth as the walls around him.

Although he desperately wanted to, Harry did not whirl around, but slowly and calmly turned to face the handsome young man, with dark curly hair before him. "I thought you were dead. I killed you."

"Come now, Harry, let's not talk about past mistakes and regrettable murders. You've grown a lot since the last time I saw you."

"Where are we? How are you alive?" Harry asked.

"You always were quite slow," Tom sighed. "You see, Harry, I was such an important part of your life and you of mine, that I will always stay alive inside you. My corporeal and spiritual selves may have vanished into the ether, but I will always be right here, nice and cosy inside of you. Just like old times, eh, Harry? Although I'm, sadly, no longer the purpose for your existence. As for where we are, it was just a little something I put together when I realised that you would be coming. Do you like it?"

Harry didn't know what to say. He should be angry, afraid, confused, but the only feeling that he could identify was a kind of strange relief. Tom was right; Harry had spent so long focusing all his efforts on him, that once he'd gone, Harry had actually missed him. But he couldn't, this was the man who had killed his parents._ Actually,_ said the annoying small voice in the back of his head, _he isn't the man who had killed his parents. The man standing in front of you can't be older than 24. Voldemort didn't kill your parents until much later._

"Harry, you've been staring at me for three minutes," said Tom in a half-amused, half-bored manner.

"Sorry, just a bit of a shock to see you."

"I have always been rather good at surprising people. But it was never my intention to upset you; after all, you know that all I ever wanted was for us to join together, we would have been so powerful."

"I don't believe you," Harry said. "If I'd let down my defences, gone with you, I doubt I would have lived another day. You knew what the prophecy said: 'neither can live while the other survives.'"

"True, but these things need to be taken at arm's length. There was also something about you, even when you were a mere boy of eleven that was different. Now I realise that it was the bit of me within you that first drew me to you."

"Anyway," said Harry, starting to become a little awkward at the direction the conversation was taking, "why do you look so young, aren't you about 70 years old?"

"I don't like to talk about my age," Tom said, cheekily. "But here I am timeless, I am eternal, I can choose to look however I choose. Vanity is a sin, Harry, and unlike sloth, or gluttony, it is one that I am rather partial to and Merlin knows that I was attractive when I was young. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Err, yes I suppose so," Harry replied, blushing slightly out of awkwardness. Tom chuckled, a sound that made Harry smile slightly. "Are you real?"

In a split-second Tom was inches from Harry, hand raised. "I can touch you, if that's what you mean," he whispered, pressing a long pale finger to the scar on Harry's forehead. The bespectacled man braced himself expecting a flood of pain, but instead, an amazing flood of warmth flowed through him. It was as though he had been cold for years and now someone was putting him in a warm bath that soothed his aching muscles.

Tom took his finger away and Harry realised that he'd closed his eyes. He still felt warm on the inside and when he opened his eyes, Tom's face was still mere inches from his own. Harry could see the faint flicker of a smile in his hard grey eyes as Tom spoke, "Another surprise?"

"Well, you are very good at them," Harry answered.

"I would say it's my third greatest skill."

"What are the first two?"

"Cold-blooded murder is second," Tom said, and Harry took a nervous step back, moving his hand to his wand. "But my finest skill," Tom took a step forward, "is persuasion."

He placed one hand on Harry's wand and the other on his cheek. Grey eyes met emerald ones.

Dot, dot, dot.


	2. Chapter 2

What, sleeping, lies in wait

It wasn't long before Tom had Harry pressed against the cold, hard wall locked in a passionate embrace. Harry suddenly realised that he wasn't actually on the ground anymore – Tom was clearly a lot stronger than he looked – and so he flexed his feet so that his toes made contact with the stone floor again.

Harry replied eagerly to the surprisingly warm lips pressed a little too firmly to his own. He opened his mouth to let Tom inside and arched his neck contentedly into the long hand that was cupped around it.

It took a few seconds for Harry to realise what he was actually doing. He pushed Tom away from him with surprising difficulty; he really was very strong. "I'm sorry, Tom. I can't, you're Voldemort, you killed my parents and my friends. I don't even know what I'm doing here." Harry walked a few steps so that he was no longer facing the beautiful nightmare behind him.

"Harry," Tom said calmly, "I am not Voldemort… yet. In any case, I'm not even a memory here," he finished sadly.

"What are you, then?" Harry asked, still facing away from him, but turning his head slightly, so that he could almost see Tom's figure in the corner of his eye.

"I'm a vestige; I'm the little baby under the bench."

Harry remembered with startling clarity, the creature that had been bawling its eyes out in King's Cross, when Voldemort had killed him – the same Voldemort that he had just been kissing. "You look a lot better than you did then."

"I try," he said, laughing, not the comforting laugh of earlier, but a sad, humourless laugh, that made Harry want to turn around and envelop the man behind him in a hug. "You know, Harry, that day – the day you killed me, the day I killed myself, I suppose – was the only day that I truly hated you. I may have disliked your stubbornness and been angered by your lack of cooperation, but I never hated you until that day. I wanted to kill you."

"You tried pretty hard. Anyway, a few minutes ago it seemed more like you wanted to fuck me."

"Don't get lippy."

"My lips are none of your concern."

"I would disagree," Tom smiled enigmatically, his cool façade returning to cover the emotions he had come far too close to revealing. "Now, I believe we were in the middle of something."

Harry knew that Tom was coming up behind him so he walked away and turned round. Tom was standing where Harry had been a few seconds before, one perfectly formed eyebrow raised questioningly. "I really can't do this, Tom. I have a fiancée; we're getting married in less than a month."

"You're not doing anything wrong Harry. I'm as much a part of you as your hand is, if you get my drift."

Harry contemplated this for a second before answering, "Still, it feels wrong. I already feel bad."

"Well then, this is goodbye." The marble walls began to turn yellow.

"I thought I controlled this place; isn't it my mind?"

"Not this bit. See you later lover-boy," Tom called as the walls became smaller and more paper-like.

"I'm not your-," Harry began, but he was back in his attic holding the little diary tightly. His thigh was wet and he looked down in alarm to discover that he had tipped the ink pot onto himself.

Having dried himself with a quick charm, Harry descended into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, with substantial amount of something stronger. He looked out the window and saw that hardly any time had passed during his jaunt into the diary, which hadn't actually been all that long, although it felt like hours. He sighed, he supposed he should probably do some work before that evening.

Several hours and not a lot of work later Harry was preparing dinner when Ginny came home and snuck up behind him jabbing him in the sides as she gave him a peck on the cheek. He jumped about a mile and spun around.

Ginny laughed. "What's got your wand in a twist?"

"Sorry, you just surprised me."

"How? I called your name."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, I did. Are you ok? You seem a bit vague," Ginny stated, looking very concerned.

"I just really got into peeling the potatoes I guess," Harry grinned.

"Well, I'll leave you to your peeling, if that is what you're really doing to those poor innocent potatoes. I'll be in the shower if you need me, which you'd better not."

With that Ginny left Harry in the kitchen, and headed upstairs.

"Okay, Potter," Harry said to himself, "get yourself together, stop thinking about Tom. Ginny can't suspect that anything happened."

At this point, the annoying voice in the back of Harry's mind, which was starting to sound more and more like Tom, started singing 'I just can't get you of my head'.

"Crap! The broccoli," Harry cried.

Dinner was a quiet affair that night; Ginny was exhausted from training and Harry was still not sure how he felt about his jaunt into the diary. He started wondering frantically if he was going to get possessed like Ginny had been all those years ago.

His panic clearly showed as Ginny asked him not for the first time, "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghoul."

"It's nothing, I just found some stuff in the attic that brought back some unpleasant memories," Harry told his fiancée. Only it wasn't so unpleasant, said the little voice before adding, Tom can't possess you, he's only a figment of your imagination, a very handsome figment too.

Luckily Ginny cut his thoughts off the, "Is everything ready for tomorrow? What time are we going over to the Scamanders?"

"Do you mean for your surprise birthday party?"

"Of course."

"How did you-,"

"Luna."

"Makes sense. I thought we'd head over around seven, and Demelza wants to take you out to the new pub for a bit of a girls' catch-up beforehand."

"Aw, you're going to be so sad here alone while I'm out having fun," Ginny joked.

"Don't worry Ginny, there's a lot of ways a man can have a good time on his own."

"Not too good," Ginny said slyly. "When we get back from Luna's the real party is going to start."

"Well in that case, we should get some sleep tonight," he replied leaning in for a kiss.

As his lips met Ginny's he was suddenly looking at Tom, making him jerk back in horror.

He was brought back to his senses by Ginny's cackle. "Sorry, I didn't realise I offended you that much."

"It's not you, it was static. Gave me a shock," Harry invented, still shaken.

She frowned, "I didn't feel anything."


	3. Chapter 3

What, sleeping, lies in wait

For the next few days Tom kept popping up in Harry's thoughts wherever he went and whatever he did, and after a while Harry learnt to ignore the small voice in the back of his head which he was now convinced belonged to the Dark Lord.

The most testing bit was on Ginny's birthday night when they had come back from dinner and Harry had had to explain away why he had accidentally called out "Tom" in surprise.

"What did you say?" Ginny asked pausing in the middle of their drunken sex.

"Come! I said come," Harry lied, congratulating himself on his quick-thinking.

"Okay!" Ginny grinned enthusiastically continuing with the ride.

Other than that though, there had been few slips and Harry didn't think that they were noticeable. He avoided the attic at all costs and had almost convinced himself that he had fallen asleep and it had all been a dream when one Saturday afternoon his wife asked him, "Did you ever get round to cleaning the attic?"

Harry started. "Yes, of course I did," he said quickly. "Don't you trust me?"

"I've known you far too long to ever do that," Ginny retorted with a smirk.

Harry laughed, hoping that that would be the end of the discussion of what lay in wait in the attic; sadly life was far too rude to let that happen. "Anything interesting?"

"Not really, just some old photo albums and a surprising amount of furniture."

"I think chairs breed when they're left alone too long," said Ginny philosophically. "Anyway, because I love you, I'm going to go and check anyway, so be prepared to suffer my wrath."

"But I did it!" Harry cried.

"Maybe, but I bet it's really bad. Knowing you, as I do all too well, you're terrible at anything that requires domestic prowess." With that she flounced out the room.

Five minutes later, Ginny returned holding the box and the voice in Harry's head started giggling like a tweenage girl. "It looks good, suspiciously good I might add. Have you done something?"

"Of course not!" Harry replied nervously and Ginny frowned.

"Do you know how to open this chest?"

"A key perhaps."

"I am not above casting the bat-bogey hex," Ginny warned.

"I genuinely have no idea, honey."

"Then why do you look so scared that it will eat you?" There was a short awkward silence. "Or are you scared that I will eat you if I find out what's inside?" Her tone had become ever so slightly dangerous.

Harry took a deep breath. This was Ginny, his wife that he was talking too. He could tell her everything, couldn't he? Surely she of all people would understand his fascination with the abomination. _I'm not an abomination!_ The voice whispered indignantly. _But if it means that much to you, I can hide the stupid book, but you'd better visit me soon._ "I don't know where it came from," Harry started, "but I can open it by…" he faltered.

"How can you open it? Harry, what is it?" Ginny demanded anger becoming anxiety.

Harry focused on the elegant snake delicately carved into the wood and spat at it like he had done before. The coffer sprung open. Ginny stared at him. Horrified. Mouth agape.

"You haven't done that in years! You can't do that anymore; that stopped when He died," Ginny stammered. Harry sat in silence. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to; I was scared about what it meant," Harry admitted.

Ginny tentatively peered into the chest and Harry saw her shoulders drop in relaxation. "It's empty," she declared.

_You're welcome_. The voice sounded smug.

"I'll get rid of it later," Harry promised Ginny. "Let's just forget about it." _You can't forget about me. __**I'm inside you**__._ Harry was reminded.

Later that day, with Ginny safely out of the house – she had gone to Diagon Alley for coffee with the girls – Harry returned to the chest sitting oh-so-innocently on the kitchen table. Sure enough, when he looked into it, the diary had returned and was open at a seemingly random page. Although when he looked closer, Harry could see what looked like a scar – a thin white slice across the centre of the page.

He felt drawn to the little mark and placed his finger on it. Once he had touched the book he knew there was no going back again, although this was mainly because his finger was no stuck to the page.

Last time he had moved his face closer to the diary, but this time his hand was stuck to it so that made the manoeuvre somewhat more difficult. Instead he tried to push his hand further into the diary, a tactic which seemed to work quite well as he was soon up to his armpit in parchment; it felt very strange because his arm didn't feel very different, it just felt like it was hanging in mid-air even though there should have been solid table.

Suddenly a hand grabbed Harry's making him gasp and he was soon being tugged down into the pages. He landed on something very soft and comfortable and when he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was some lightly curled dark hair and pale skin.

When his eyes had focused Harry was staring into the handsome face of Thomas Marvolo Riddle, who was smiling with affection that Harry would have once thought impossible for a man like this one.

"The mark you just touched is from the very first time you penetrated me. You remember. We were down in my secret chamber." His voice was as silky and as pure as ever.

"Of course, I remember," Harry said sitting up. He was next to Tom on a purple velvety bed which seemed to extend to the horizon on three sides and in front of him, was a simple wooden wall. "What I don't remember is you behaving like… this."

"Ah Harry, I exist solely how you would like to remember me; you forget that I am only the shadow of a memory of a fragment of a once powerful soul," Tom sounded so forlorn that Harry couldn't stop himself putting his arms around his broad shoulders.

He was surprised when Tom leaned in to his embrace and soaked up the affection. "When was the last time someone hugged you?" Harry asked, curious.

"Do you know, I can't actually remember," Tom said and Harry suddenly remembered the young boy that he had seen in the pensive years ago.

Some people say that you're born the way you are, but the man nestled in Harry's arm was not born evil. He had never learned to love because no one had ever loved him. There was clearly more to Tom Riddle than anyone had ever suspected; similarities between him and Harry that the latter was not likely to admit to any time soon.

It took him a few attempts before Harry successfully broke the silence, "You know, you are allowed to talk to me about your problems. I'm here for you."

Tom sat up, chuckling, and said, "Thank you, Harry, but I don't need comfort. The only thing that even mildly upsets me is that I'm not as powerful as I once was. As far as I'm concerned if an emotion isn't a deadly sin, I'm probably not interested. My personal favourite is Greed, although Lust has its merits. Speaking of which-," he laid his long hand on the side of Harry's face drawing him in for a deep kiss.

His lips were forceful and slowly pushed Harry down until he was on his back with Tom directly on top of him. Somehow, their mouths opened and the slippery warmth of Lord Voldemort's tongue was now within Harry, soothingly massaging his lips and tongue.

When they pulled apart Harry had forgotten the emotional tension and connection that he had been contemplating earlier.

"Why have we never done this before?" Harry asked him.

"Because when I was alive, I was too bent on world domination and also you were a child so that would not have been appropriate. However, I am now willing to do quite a bit more. With our current situation I have to admit that imagination is definitely a very powerful tool. Especially when you can control it." Tom started grinning.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked and Tom's grin only got wider. "Why are you smiling? What have you done?"

"You need to learn some observational skills, Harry. Now look down!"

Bemused Harry looked down and saw that where there had been robes earlier there was now only a pair of silken red underwear that was more than revealing. Looking across to his right, he saw bare legs and as his gaze drifted to Tom's crotch, he saw that he was only wearing a very tight green pair. In the back of his mind Harry vaguely noticed his pants becoming tighter.

His eyes met Tom's and both men smiled knowingly.

Harry wheeled his legs up to his left and lay across Tom's lap, pulling the older man's face down to meet his own.


	4. Chapter 4

What, Sleeping, Lies in Wait

They kissed for several minutes, exploring each other's warm mouths with their slippery tongues and discovering one another's bodies with their fingers: Harry's more compact and muscular; Tom's smooth, pale and firm. Just the thought of it was enough to make Harry shudder, so being physically entangled with him was truly exhilarating.

They moved further onto the bed the velvet soft and welcoming on Harry's bare back. The sensation was phenomenal, inviting, it was luring him in deeper, to the darker more private recesses of his mind. It led him all the way to his fantastical imagination. For that's all this was, Harry's imagination, his fantasies, fantasies he didn't even know he had. But if it was his mind that they were in, surely that meant he could do whatever he wanted and it wouldn't matter, wouldn't have any impact on the outside world and no one would ever know.

It meant he was in control.

Just as this last thought crossed Harry's mind, Tom rolled over, pulling Harry on top of him and wrapping one leg over the scar-faced man's muscular thighs. Tom's long, elegant fingers moved gently down Harry's back, nails gliding along the surface of the skin. It didn't hurt, but it made Harry shiver: a pleasurable shiver. It was the release of tension. This shiver represented Harry's willingness to allow joy to enter his mind. He felt Tom smile against his lips drawing back by a millimetre, not enough that they lost contact, but enough to let him speak.

"Will you give yourself over to me, Harry?"

Harry's mind raced, thinking of all the implications that the next few words could have: it might mean he was trapped in his imagination, or Voldemort was about to take over his mind, but while all this was going on his head, his mouth had already formed and spoken the words, "Yes, I'm yours." It was too late now.

"Perfect."

Tom's hands had now reached his lower back and were playing with the slip of red silk that masked his decency, if he could still have any after all this. Without warning, the teasing stopped and one hand slid under the material and started massaging Harry's cheek and a second later the second hand was down there as well, playing with him, massaging him.

Harry had never been touched there before and he had small intake of breath at the comfort and desire it incited in him. But it also made him pause for thought. He was confused as to why he was here, why he was doing what he was doing. This man had killed his parents, had tried to kill him. What was he doing almost-naked on top of him, sighing and longing for his touch.

This was wrong. But it felt so right or exhilarating at any rate. The more his mind was repelled by the idea the more his body craved Tom's touch, his warmth, his body.

With enormous effort, Harry wrenched himself away from the gorgeous man beneath him and scampered across the bed. Now that he was further away, it was easier to control his animalistic desires and the fire in his stomach.

"What's the matter? Is this not exciting enough?" Tom laughed and clicked his fingers.

No sooner had he done this than they were lying on benches in a steamy sauna instead of the purple velvet bed. Harry felt moisture collecting on his skin almost immediately, but forced himself to remain in control of his own body.

The steam rose as Harry's mind cleared and the events of his imagination ventures made him feel slightly sick in the pit of the stomach. "How have I come to this?" he asked. "How have I sunk to fantasising about the man who was trying to kill me for the first 17 years of my life?"

Tom opened his mouth to speak but Harry couldn't bear to his voice as he knew it would sound smooth, cool and enticing.

"Don't say anything. Your words twist."

"I've never lied to you," Tom protested.

"No, but you suit the truth to your needs. You make things seem like something they're nothing not. You say things, and they just seem right and true and so real. It makes me feel comfortable and easy, as though I could trust you. As though _I _could ever trust _you_, after everything you've done to me. It's not – I can't – what I feel – I shouldn't. You shouldn't be able to make me feel so relaxed."

"Why not? Harry, think about what you're saying, for a moment. You say you feel comfortable, at ease. Doesn't that make you… happy?"

Harry nodded.

"You couldn't possibly tell me that that's wrong. Happiness is fickle Harry. If I've learned anything it's that you need to find something that makes you happy, anything that makes you smile and cling to it. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Every damned thing is wrong with that. Nothing is not wrong about that, about _this_! You make me feel happy, you shouldn't; you're not allowed to make me happy."

"But-."

"I still have nightmares about the things you put me through, but here I am frolicking in your arms. My friends still cry about the people you killed, yet I'm kissing you. Ginny and I are thinking about building a family and I'm cheating on her with the guy that destroyed mine." Harry's voice had risen to a shout now. "That's what wrong. That is why I hate myself for wanting to touch you. That's why it makes me sick that I think about you the whole time. That's why I'm disturbed by me attraction to you. That's why it scares me that your voice soothes me. That is precisely why I despise the fact that I don't despise every detail about you." His voice broke. "Can't you understand that?" He asked quietly, desperately.

"I can't pretend that I didn't do those things, Harry," Tom said his voice hard but warm. "I won't ever make excuses about that." Emotion made a cameo appearance in his voice for the first time in a long time.

"I'm not asking you to."

"Listen to me, Harry. I regret everything that I did. This part of me does at least. The part of me that's a part of you has always been a part of you and always will be. I know that admitting regret doesn't change anything. It doesn't raise the dead it doesn't erase the fear, the distrust or the memories. But the very fact that I feel regret, that I feel anything for that matter, shows more than anything that I'm different. I hate who I was, probably even more than you, but I can't just pretend it wasn't there."

"Neither can I. That's the problem."

"Well what do you suggest?"

"I can't come back here. Ever, it's too weird."

"Harry, you can point a glorified stick at a desk and turn it into a pig, don't you dare say that weird is the reason for this."

"That's not the reason," Harry said and there was a slight pause.

"Well, do feel free to enlighten the rest of us."

"Surely, if you're a part of my mind, you know what I'm thinking."

"The rest of your brain, the conscious part has shut me off from the rest of you, but since I used to be an extremely accomplished legilimens I have a rough idea of what your thoughts are, but when it comes to emotion, I'm afraid you're more confused than an overly-dramatic teenager, much as you used to be when you were an overly-dramatic teenager. I remember that time very fondly."

"You mean the time when you were starting a war?"

"I mostly meant having a body; the war was enjoyable though, for me, at the time. Not for anyone else, not anymore. But we're off topic, Harry, drifting into memory, which is very delicate and not in the least objective."

"I don't really know what else to do. I enjoy this too much; I won't be able to live without it. It'll be too difficult."

"Then don't." Tom's words were so tempting, his face so tantalising, and his voice so titillating. Why shouldn't Harry stay there? Hadn't he deserved to choose his own fate?

_Is this the fate that you want though?_ The small voice in his head was acting as the voice of reason again. He'd built a life with Ginny and a career at the ministry; he couldn't just let all that go. "But on the other hand being here is so confusing."

"Get back to me on that," Tom said, before raising a pale slender hand in farewell.

With that, the sauna and steam started to fade, leaving only Tom's face, which also faded slowly to the sideboard in the kitchen.

Harry pushed the box aside and let his head drop onto the table in front of him. It wasn't fair that so many years after his apparent death, Voldemort was still able to make Harry's life so difficult. Admittedly the methods were different, but the result was the same, a problem that Harry couldn't talk to anyone about because after all, his friends would think he was either mad or twisted and Ginny wouldn't be able to understand Harry's relationship with Tom, and he couldn't ask her to.

There was a loud knock at the door, and much against his will, Harry forced himself to his feet and quickly hid the box in one of the kitchen cupboards next to some blue china mugs before heading out to the corridor. There was another knock, more insistent this time. "I'm coming," Harry called down the corridor in front of him and a few seconds later he pulled open the door to reveal a face that he hadn't seen in a long time and had never really anticipated on seeing again.

There was a few seconds of silence before the man spoke, "You haven't changed at all."

"What are you doing here?"

"Still as gracious as ever, I see."

"Answer the question."

"Well it seems that we're skipping the formalities. Fine, I'll go straight to the point. I know what's been happening. What you've been doing and who you've been seeing. I know it all."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Harry, hoping against hope that the man smirking in front of him was talking about something else.

"I'm talking about a certain Mr Riddle. Don't worry, I haven't told anyone. If it makes you feel better, I thought he was totally dead as well."

"How in the hell did you know about it? I haven't even told Ginny."

"I didn't know you were still with her" he sounded surprised. "I know about you, because it's been happening to me as well," he said. It looked like it had taken him a large amount of effort to say this to Harry, of all people.

Harry's jaw dropped about a foot and a half. "What- how- you," he spluttered.

"I'd rather not talk about it out here. Are you going to let me into your house?"

Harry nodded and caught a faint scent of pinewood as the man whose presence was unexplained crossed the threshold into his house.


End file.
